Books
by fightfortherightsofhouseelves
Summary: Ron found out that reading books and living through sleepless night after sleepless night was not as bad as he expected.


Written for: QLFC, Round One

Chudley Cannons, (a-not-so-quick) Seeker

Mandatory: Write a pairing you've never written before

Word count: 1,177

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His sleeping schedule had turned hectic, at best. What with Quidditch practice, general trio adventures and mischief to be plotted (also add the many attempts to keep a very trouble-attracting Harry away from much trouble into the mix) and Prefect duties and homework to be done, having to read _and_ memorise a book had never been more untimely. If he was being honest with himself, it was actually laughable that he, Ronald Weasley, the seventeen year old man-boy-wizard who had kept a clean slate of never going against the mantra he'd adopted since his first year at Hogwarts – _reading non-Quidditch related books outside homework is indecent_ – was doing just that 24/7.

"Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches" was a gift from his dear older brothers, masters of mayhem and kings of all pranks known to the wizarding world, Fred and George Weasley. He'd been slightly pissed when he anxiously tore open the wrapping paper and found the book title, glinting marvelously in huge gold letters, like a slap in teenage boy's face. He definitely remembered stomping out of the room and slamming the door in the twins' bewildered faces, much to their chagrin and to his own embarrassment whenever he reminisced about it.

But now? Now, it was all he wanted to read. He never reckoned that blokes who swung compliments left and right were worth much, but, _Merlin's beard!_ , the book said girls _actually liked them_? So, instead of keeping wild thoughts to himself, as he'd done the past six years, this morning an awkward "youlookverynicetoday" came out of his untamed lips. Of course she eyed him suspiciously and checked her hair in the window glass' reflection, but the small smile nestled at the corner of her upper lip made it all worth it, sending a wave of heat and pride down his chest. Moreover, he'd grown up thinking that wand size was most important, positively and completely certain about it. However, yet again that nifty little book told otherwise. Apparently wandwork was key, you see. The tiny revelation shook his world and left him struggling to find more and more information, digging deeper and deeper into the mysterious demeanor of women until it no longer held any secrets to him. For the first time ever, he was feeling that dubious thirst for knowledge that he never understood in Hermione.

And speaking of Hermione Jean Granger, the main reason for his lack of sleep these days, Ron was yet to find out how she could just go on with no sleep and a full twenty set of books about her, day in and day out. Late in the wee dark hours, she'd sit in that cosy armchair she strongly preferred, right by the fire, and flip through the pages with upmost curiosity and a crease on her forehead that, Ron now knew, indicated she was being a hundred percent focused. The girl's brain was like a sponge, Ron concluded, because there was no way any human could just read and remember so much. But, oh well, if he wanted to woo her, that meant he had to stay up too. "Prefect duties," he'd tell Harry, staying glued to the chair next to hers, knowing fully well his best mate could see through the half-hearted lie. But, quite frankly, he didn't care much. He was all in, fighting his way to victory one sleepless night at a time.

On such late evenings, the shadows of the roaring fire danced around her cheekbones, caressing them tenderly. The highlights of her hair changed and swirled, determining Ron's sleep deprived mind to wonder if it was really a crown, a bushy brown crown atop of the most beautiful head he'd ever seen. Her curls whirled and twirled about her temples, framing her face and gently touching her jaw. He wondered how it would feel like to twist his finger through them, to feel their softness on his freckled skin.

"Are you alright? You seem a bit…off," Hermione'd comment, from between the pages of the tome she got lost in. Ron would immediately close his mouth and focus his vision, giving her a nonchalant smile and a mindless shrug.

Early in the morning, he'd accompany her to the library and even offer to share the burden of the many books she absolutely had to carry with her. "We're going to the library, you know that, right? I mean, there are already millions of books in there," he'd point out and she'd pout in a way he'd always found adorable, diving into a rant about books and knowledge and other Hermione things that made the young man's stomach churn and plunge into a series of acrobatics.

Once in the library, he'd flop onto a chair, prop his chin up and compose his face into a studied expression of boredom which, in reality, hid a lovesick-yet-dignified appearance he came to associate with her. She strutted left and right, walking with the confidence of one who owned the place, standing on her tiptoes to better read a title and going down on her knees to clearly see another.

"You're a witch, how many times do I have to tell you?" he'd ask amused, words half-muffled by the fist he supported his head up on. She'd frown, then smile, then draw out her wand and create a whirlwind of books around her, calling them to her with silent enchantments. Maybe this was what he liked most about Hermione: books just made her forget everything else. She could lose herself in them, drench in the science and facts that fueled her being, that shaped her into the brightest witch of her age.

He was never aware that he fancied observing the seven AM rays of light grazing the ink-black letters, winding and unwinding against words and turning them into phrases. He was never aware that his heart would start mimicking the sound of her quill scribbling furiously on a fresh piece of parchment. He was never aware of many things, but one he knew for sure: that Hermione Jean Granger, with her insufferable, gorgeous, amazingly smart mouth, had made a rather strong impression on him ever since she walked into his life that September day on the Hogwarts Express. Somehow, he knew the world - or, at least his world - was safe with her right there, an answer at the ready to any possible question and a pocket full of banter to accompany his own.

"You make really nice _W_ -s, Hermione," he tried a rather innovative compliment that particular morning, earning a slightly confused expression from the girl he dreamed of.

"Erm, thanks, Ron. Yours are – yours are nice too," she tried reciprocating, even though her words faltered as she gave one look at the blotchy, frenzied writing on the parchment next to hers. Ron snorted and buried his head back into his homework to hide the grin that spread his lips wide apart. Being sleep deprived was worth spending hour after hour with her, he decided then and there. Who needed it to survive, anyway?


End file.
